The Aleatory interaction of Opportunity and Capability:   Earth’s Racial Dominance Hierarchy explained in a nutshell. A nutshell self-servingly misunderstood by Racists of every temperament.



We are a Frontline ER overstaffed with Brilliant Diagnosticians yet conspicuously devoid of Surgeons.



“There is nothing wrong with literature participating in—or being used as material for—social and political debates: from Ulysses to The Golden Notebook to Beloved, many of the great works of twentieth-century fiction have served as touchstones in cultural conversations. Surely, though, we lose something when this is all we can figure out to do with literature—as any of the authors of those novels would passionately attest. To their credit, Lerner’s novels at least recollect the possibility of aesthetic enchantment, even if they do so from a remote distance. The viral success of two recent short stories published in magazines, Kristen Roupenian’s “Cat Person” and Tony Tulathimutte’s “The Feminist,” gives a more straightforward sense of the way the hatred of literature often manifests itself, in our public discourse, in the simple conflation of fiction and social commentary. (The lack of literary sensibility in these millennial morality tales was a feature rather than a bug: it was what allowed them to generate takes in the same register as the newest fragment of cultural testimony in The Cut.)”




Quite a bit of what was popularly referred to as the “conversation” of online Lit Chat was actually an argument (quite often heated), the value of which went underappreciated at the time and the legality of which becomes less certain every day. Whatever is left of legacy-media/ paper-printed Lit “Crit” (and its online stooge-force) is just cheerfully hyperbolic advertizing pushing a product I would compare to laundry detergent but for the fact that most laundry detergent actually works. So many well-hyped, prize-grabbing books are terrible while the “reviews” are glowing… of course general interest is declining even further. The “conversation” has quieted to the sound of some of the fastidious, book-mad reader/writers who were there from the beginning, never in it for book deals or magazine gigs, obsessed and knowledgeable and strange. Too many sites died or went feeble when their comment sections were shut down or were modded into toothlessness; too many sites never really got that those couple-hundred book-mad cranks I referenced, just now,  were driving the “conversation”; all of it;  shilling for Amazon or angling for low-fame and paychecks was never the point. There may or may not be a spiritual dimension to being a happily-word-soaked wretch but many of us will keep at it as though there is.

And then what?



You struggle with a sock in your mouth, an arm tied back, a foot broken. You pause in the struggle to watch a sitcom, chew gum to a catchy song, cry over the death of a famous man’s terrier and when the battle resumes mid-show you are blindsided, tackled, the wind knocked out, while expressing your trivial sock-muted opinion of the famous man’s comportment during the celebrity interviewer’s remarks about the terrier’s death as covered in a newspaper that will line your coffin when you are done.



Regarding the complicated breeding schemes of certain  “elite” bloodlines:  what if the rarefied attribute they are very careful to preserve, from generation to generation, is psychopathy?



“In Mann’s bombshell, sexually-explicit testimony on Friday she said she thought Weinstein was ‘physically deformed or intersex’ when she saw him naked for the first time. She said he does not have testicle and his penis ‘looks like a vagina’. 

‘When I first saw him, I was filled with compassion, absolute compassion,’ she said, adding, ‘It seemed his anger came from a place of pain.’

She cried as she described growing up on a dairy farm in rural Washington state to a religious family in a community she described as a ‘cult, it was extremely religious Pentecostal evangelist.'”




“David Bowie tried to have a threesome with a 16-year-old girl and her best friend by stripping naked and dancing to his hit Let’s Dance, it has been claimed.

The star was on holiday with fellow singer Mick Jagger in Mustique, the Caribbean, in the 1980s.

Bowie, who was in his 40s at the time, was roughly 25 years older than the pair when he tried to seduce them in their cabin.

The alleged romp was revealed by comedian David Baddiel who had heard the story at a dinner party from one of the girls involved.

He said: ‘David was clearly keen on a threesome (between him and the two girls) and he had to put some work in to create it.

‘The way he did this, according to her, was to take all his clothes off and put Let’s Dance on cassette and dance naked.

The girls then got naked and one of them ‘copped off with him’, according to Baddiel.

He said: ‘There was sexual goings-on but she didn’t sleep with David’.

‘I said “why on earth would you not want to lose your virginity to David Bowie?”

‘She replied ‘It wouldn’t have meant anything to him, I didn’t want to do that for him, just one night”‘.

Bowie apparently proceeded to have sex with her friend and then tried to make amends with the girl who had gone outside and was ‘a bit p***ed off’, Baddiel claimed. ”

Bowie admitted he had been ‘incredibly promiscuous’ at times in his life.

He once told a BBC interviewer: ‘I was hitting on everybody. I had a wonderfully irresponsible, promiscuous time.’



The Academics I know/knew are bourgeois snobs (or bourgeois hipster snobs) who think unfalsifiable word-salads sexed up with dusty chunklets of antique Heidegger, Marx, Lacan,  Flusser, Debord, et al,  are more important than keeping an eye on, and interpreting,  media-driven déclassé revelatory phenomena of Duh Masses. On some level they know better, but they can’t help cowering in the tower, pretending it’s the 19th century and waiting for the clock to run out.



Art, which should embody a kind of Secular Divine Inspiration for Duh Masses, has been cruelly subverted, in its public manifestation, into a flashy and vapid diversion for the rich; it is, in the end, just another stolen and desecrated resource, like privatized beachfront property, but, unlike beachfront property, it can be taken back without bloodshed… I think.



It is hard to admit but difficult to deny that we kill things with our love,  in the way that we love. We love the prettiest singers and the handsomest novelists and slowly but surely the world of music and the world of literature are filled with sexually attractive mediocrities who can barely sing or write, basking in adulation and money… until real novels and genuine music shall all but vanish from public view. The ugly-talented (it is usually the case that the stupendously-talented are ugly, either as a natural defence or willed compensation or a spooky consolation from the Maker and Distributor of Attributes) are left to rot offstage. Sometimes we may find beautiful men or women who are also not bad at some fine art or other but it’s the bulging lens of their beauty itself through which we view their choreography or their sonnet,  their art song or their watercolor, magnifying the cultural value of what is, in all probable truth, the merely not-awful, glowing meretriciously in the sacred hands of the anatomically blessed.

(But what of the born-ugly, then surgically-enhanced, like Prince? The prettier Prince became, the more vapid his music, the greater his success and the fewer his noteworthy contributions to Music.)




The overcrowded and pestilential space for the Shitty Novel is all used up, agreed, but there is an untouched aesthetic frontier, a huge wilderness,  for the Novel of Talent to populate and replenish. The sources from which we keep hearing that the “Novel is Dead” are the very same sources promoting the kinds of conservative, unimaginative, vapidly moralistic and cookie-cutter fables of the middle classes which most deserve to die off: irony, paradox, conspiracy or joke? It’s just Eden’s Squarest Snake talking asinine bullshit, again,  for Likes.



We keep a garden, a lovely private garden (a rarity in Central Berlin) which Wife maintains with precise passions, planting flowers and little fruit trees and vegetables. On the other side of a facing stone wall and flush with the top edge of the wall are two smaller, fenced-in back-yards for the neighboring apartment building overlooking our garden. The left-most of these two small backyards belongs to a grizzled Yankee Expat (ironic applause for McFate) and his big fucking youngish dog, some ugly variation on  German Shepherd with a shorter snout,  heavier body, who sometimes manages to tunnel under his fence to hop down to our garden with territory-annexing insouciance and piss me right off. When I catch the dog, every blue moon, trespassing, I grab the aluminum extension pole (house-painting tool: will I never fully escape the Craft? ) where it waits,  propped beside our garden door, and I confront the nervy fucker,  who barks and snarls and growls “frighteningly” and stands his ground in our garden but,  Lo and nuh uh,  I immediately charge him, shouting hair-raising abuse,  and off he runs. Happened this way two weeks ago and that dog skeedaddled across the garden and shimmied mud-belly posthaste back under his fence (and Wife, I couldn’t help noticing, was rather atavistically turned on by this and got awfully oral, suddenly, in our music room,  her back to the piano, my shoulders tipped back against the door so Offspring couldn’t surprise us)…

Today I was called upon to do this dragon-battling again and beast barked and growled and I charged and he ran right back up to the very base of the hurricane fence,  then turned to stand “his” ground until I rushed him, swinging the pole to within inches of his retreating ass, pressing my merciless verbal critique of the fucker as he scampered comically right up and over the five-foot hurricane fence, scared shitless.

This is how it works: I will really hit him, if I have to, and the dog knows it. If I were bluffing, he could tell, and so could I, and the results would suck but I have learned, in this long Life, to bluff never.

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